


A Heart to Love

by slimandalittlebitfoxy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, References to Shakespeare, Slow Burn, Theatre
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-03-06 23:16:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18860947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slimandalittlebitfoxy/pseuds/slimandalittlebitfoxy
Summary: Jaime Lannister is directing a Tarlean classic, Macbarath, and hires a new stage manager named Brienne Tarth.





	1. Chapter 1: brietarth@westerosi.kl

_“Who could refrain,_  
_That had a heart to love, and in that heart_  
_Courage, to make love known?”_

 

**********

 

**Jaime**

Jaime pored over the applications with a lethargic indifference. It seemed the King’s Landing Theatre Company continued to grow in popularity year after year, and the pile of resumes, cover letters, and lists of references grew with it. They had many of their tech positions filled by the season’s regulars, but his usual stage manager, Ilyn Payne, had mysteriously stopped answering his phone calls and seemed to disappear off the face of Westeros. There were some unsettling rumors going around. He’d served him quite loyally (and silently) over the years, but he did often give some of his cast and crew the creeps, so perhaps it was better that he was no longer part of the company.

Most of the applications were from young hopefuls, just trying to get their start straight out of university; a common occurrence. He already had an intern, though—Podrick Payne was an intelligent young lad with an affinity for organization and listening, but he was not ready to take on a Tarlean production of his own yet. He had been with the company for two seasons, and would undoubtedly have a full-time position when he was ready. Jaime had taken quite a liking to the boy—and the ladies seemed to like him too, even though he was quite bashful about it. He filtered out the resumes with no professional experience and that cut the stack right about in half. One of them finally caught his eye and he perked up a bit. “Brienne Tarth.” Pretty name, he thought.

 **Brienne Tarth**  
**Stage Manager**  
**Email:** brietarth@westerosi.kl  
**Website:** www.brietarthsm.com

**Stage Management Experience:**  
_Romen & Jyanna_  
_Winterfell Theatre_  
  
_The Kingsroad Tales_  
_Theatre of the Reach_

_Taming of the Crow_  
_Highgarden Center of the Arts_

_Everyser_  
_Ironborn Theatre_

_The Temptress_  
_Sunspear Theatre Company_

Jaime stopped reading. The Martells were incredibly selective about who they contracted to work with. Theatre was a very important form of entertainment for them. He was already impressed—it seemed her historical interests lined up quite similarly to his.

 **Education:**  
_Sapphire Isle School of the Arts_  
_Major: Medieval-Renaissance Literature_  
_Minor: Technical Theatre_  
  
He paused. It was rather close to the degree he’d earned at King’s University, but it wasn’t altogether unsurprising considering their line of work. His father encouraged his major to be in business management. He was able to sneak in a double minor in literature and theatre. He was quite the actor, back in his day. As he’d gotten older, he seemed to take more joy in watching and creating, rather than participating on the actual stage. Tywin Lannister owned the King’s Landing Theatre Company, and it was essentially going to be his when the inevitable happened. Tywin would have preferred he stuck with the business side of running things rather than the artistic, but then again, when did Tywin’s children not disappoint him?

He turned to his computer and typed out a short message.

_Hi Brienne,_

_This is Jaime Lannister with the King’s Landing Theatre Company. I’m very interested in speaking to you about the position of stage manager for our upcoming production of Macbarath. Please let me know what time you’re available to speak—perhaps tomorrow afternoon? I look forward to hearing from you._

_Jaime Lannister_  
_Director_

He read over his email for mistakes and pressed send. He turned back to his applications, and before he could even get through the next one, his browser _pinged._

_Ser Jaime,_

_Thank you for taking the time to look over my resume. It’s great to hear back from you. Does two o’clock work?_

_Brienne Tarth_  
_Stage Manager  
_

He typed back a response.

_That works great. I’ll meet you in the lobby at 2pm sharp._

_Jaime_

Her response was almost immediate.

_I’m looking forward to it. See you tomorrow.  
_

_Brienne_

He smiled. It wasn’t very often he got excited about interviews—he quite honestly disliked meeting new people in general and would happily skip over all of the hiring and go straight into rehearsals if that was possible, but there was something about Brienne Tarth that had him looking forward to two o’clock tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll have the next chapter posted soon - I know this is short!


	2. The Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne has her interview.

**Brienne**

Brienne smiled as she deposited her phone into her pocket and unlocked the door to her apartment. She couldn’t believe it! She had an interview with _Jaime fucking Lannister_! She had admired the productions at the King’s Landing Theatre for years. She’d had experience with nearly every well-renowned theatre in the Seven Kingdoms, but King’s Landing was one of the top ones on her list—it was the capital, after all. Her father had taken her on several trips throughout the years and it was one of the reasons she was inspired to pursue theatre in university. She had even seen Jaime himself in a few productions, a number of years ago. She figured he was about ten years her senior. He really owned the stage—power and grace, and his stage combat skills were superb. He was quite handsome, too, which never hurts as an actor. And that _voice._ She wondered why he gave it up to pursue the less glamorous part of it all.

She hung her keys up by the door and shut it behind her. She had taken a part-time temp job while she looked for theatre work in King’s Landing—she truly did hate office work. It was a bit of a gamble to move without knowing whether she had a shot at getting in with the theatre company, but there were a few smaller theatres she could have easily been hired on with if she never got that email. But now she wouldn’t have to, because she knew that job was hers.

Brienne poured an uncharacteristic celebratory glass of wine, even though it was only four in the afternoon, and took a seat on the couch. She opened her portfolio to make sure everything was up to date. She knew it was. If there was any word Brienne would use to describe herself, it would be responsible. She contemplated what she would wear. She had never been much of a looker, but she’d grown more comfortable in her own skin in her adult years. She’d learned the makeup tricks, though she didn’t wear it often, and pixie cuts and freckles were totally in right now. It would be the black slacks and that blue blouse she loved, definitely. She also had a very well-fitted blazer she liked to wear every once in a while. Perhaps she’d break it out. She sipped her wine.

***********

The foyer of the King’s Landing Playhouse was opulent, to say the least. Large columns stood the room, decorated with hand-sculpted lions ready to pounce adorning the tops, expertly hand-woven rugs graced the floors, and shades of deep scarlet and gold trim lined the walls. It was well-known that the Lannisters had no shortage of wealth, thanks to the avaricious nature of the head of their House, Tywin. Brienne was admiring the architecture, perched tentatively on a lavishly upholstered bench, when she heard suspiciously expensive footsteps against the beautifully-finished hardwood. And there he was, _Ser Lannister_ in all of his Golden Glory. His purposefully tousled hair framed his face—a bit longer than Brienne ever remembered seeing it. He was wearing a plain-colored button-up with the first two undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His skin was tanned and his smile was charming. She noted his gaze faltered a bit when she stood. It was a look that she had become painfully aware of, now ardently indifferent to. She returned his smile—a bit softer. Brienne certainly hadn’t invested as much money in her teeth as he did.

“You’re taller than I expected.” His tone was almost patronizing—she supposed that’s how it usually sounded. She should have known he’d be pompous, but perhaps she was judging a book by it’s cover just as he was.

“And you’re just what I expected. Brienne Tarth, it’s a pleasure.” She glossed over the remark with a practiced indifference and stuck out a firm, work-worn hand—his had callouses to match, she was surprised to find.

He seemed taken aback by her slight. His eyes gleamed as if he’d just accepted a challenge with their handshake, like they were knights about to joust and the handshake was more of a gauntlet that had been thrown in the dust. Maybe they were, and maybe it was. “Jaime Lannister, the pleasure is all mine.” He punctuated his introduction with a smirk. “Please, to my office.”

He turned heel and strode back down the hallway from where he’d came. His trousers were exceptionally well-fitted. Brienne tried not to notice as she easily keep his pace. The frosted glass on the door had his name etched in fine golden script. He opened it and waved her inside, offering her one of the plush chairs situated in front of his desk. He took his seat behind it and grabbed a piece of paper off of the abhorrently messy stack sitting in the corner—her resume.

“Tell me—how did you get hired on at Sunspear?”

“Lady Margery, may she rest in piece, used to frequent the shows at High Garden, and her praise helped me solidify a position with them for one of Dorne’s summer stocks. She was actually in the production of _Taming of the Crow_ that I listed—lovely woman and talented actress. She and Sansa, who I’ve known for quite some time, had worked together frequently. With her highborn status and overall good character, Margery was able to put in a good word for me when I applied. They invited me to return for their next summer production, but unfortunately my father passed away a few weeks before I was set to leave and I had to stay at home to handle my family’s finances.”

Jaime was listening intently, and he frowned when she spoke of the death of her father. There seemed to be genuine concern in his eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that, about your father. What of your mother or siblings?”

“I have neither surviving, Ser, but I did not come here to speak to you about my tragic family history,” Brienne replied smoothly. The grief would still wrack her if she let it, and she feared he was getting too personal for her liking already. She shifted, crossing her arms.

“Right, of course. My apologies.” He ran a hand through his hair, brushing it away from his forehead. “What made you want to come work for King’s Landing? Your resume could honestly land you a job anywhere.”

“Well, this is one of the most prestigious theatres in Westeros, is it not?” She tried not to blush at his praise—when she blushed, it was quite a nasty, irreversible sight. “I used to come to the theatre when I was quite young, and I’ve always enjoyed the city. I saw you in a few productions in your glory days, you were quite good.”

He subtly puffed up, defensiveness creeping into his voice. “I still am, Tarth.” He deflated a bit, the bite easing out of his voice and the fire in his eyes ebbing away. “Just at different things, and I would be happy to give you the chance to see it. Will you accept the stage manager position for this production?”

“Gladly, Lannister.” If snark was what he gave, she was going to return the same.

His smile was genuine as he stood. “Great, I’ve already written up your paperwork.” He handed over a folder with a packet nestled inside. She flipped it open and was surprised to find her name was already typed across the front page. He shrugged. “I had a good feeling about you. Included is the handbook, salary, pay schedule, etcetera. Fill out the contact forms, sign all the lines, and return it on Friday at noon—we’ll be having a production meeting. Auditions are that evening, and we’ll begin rehearsals on Wednesday of next week.”

“Well, you’ve certainly spared no time in finding me,” she said in a playfully sarcastic tone stood and extended her hand once more.

“If I do say so myself, it was perfect timing.” He gave her one more charming grin, which she actually returned, and she headed out with a quick _thank-you-looking-forward-to-it_ , attempting to mask her eagerness.

On her way back to the parking lot, she nearly skipped. He was an ass, but damn if she wasn’t excited to get started.


	3. Production Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne attend the season’s first production meeting.

**Jaime**

Tyrion was hovering over his floor plan sketches beneath a desk lamp with a glass of wine beside him when Jaime entered his studio. The dwarf had commissioned a desk that was perfectly built for his short stature. Jaime, of course, towered over both him and the desk. He greeted Jaime without looking up from his work. “Hello, brother. How did the interview go?”

“More of a formality, really. I knew I was going to give her the job. She is far and away the best candidate for the position.” He pondered for a moment, remembering with the ghost of a smile how she’d thrown back everything he’d given. “Though I must say, she’s more of a spitfire than anticipated. After Payne, I assumed all stage managers were docile.” Jaime paused to look at the drawings of shows-gone-by that Tyrion had plastered on the walls. The state of Tyrion’s studio was far worse than even his own disorganized office.

“Not the good ones. You need someone to keep you in line, a great stage manager does that. Perhaps she’ll be able to knock you down a peg.” He leaned back in his chair and gestured to the wine bottle. Jaime graciously accepted a glass, and Tyrion moved to pour him one. “Gods know you need it.” He handed him the glass—more full than a typical glass of wine should be.

Jaime laughed and took a sip, moving a few folders off of the one extra chair in the space. “How’s the set design coming along?”

“Wonderfully. Sandor might have his hands a bit full, but he’s dealt with worse coming from me. Remember _Comedy of Essos_?” Jaime snorted as he recalled Sandor going red in the face after finding out about the number of working doors required. “He’s a great carpenter, no matter how much he bitches and moans over it.” Tyrion shrugged, passing him the sketch. Jaime never had much to say about Tyrion’s set designs. He was quite good at what he did, and always seemed to know exactly what Jaime needed.

“You know, Cersei is going to go batshit if you don’t give her the role of Lady Macbarath,” Tyrion said as he rolled his eyes and reached to get the sketch back.

“Perhaps she would be perfect for the part, then,” Jaime sighed. Tyrion was right. He almost hoped a better actress didn’t come along. Cersei was good, but she was losing her touch. She couldn’t remember lines like she used to, and she didn’t seem to care. Her drinking was getting worse, and her marriage was nearly in shambles. He had called their _relationship_ off, if you could call it that, years ago, after the rumors running around the theatre began to get out of hand—theatre people loved to talk. What she had taught him to be normal, he had realized, was morally abhorrent, and he decided frisking his sister was no longer something he was comfortable with. Took him long enough—better late than never, he would tell himself. What was even worse was the way she had treated him, and how he had been so okay with it. He tried not to think about it. It had damaged him, but he was slowly but surely coming back. He’d had a few short flings, though nothing substantial. He hoped one day he’d find something that made him feel all the highs he had with Cersei without the lows. He could hope.

“I apologize—I know you don’t much like to talk about her beyond work formalities, though she loves to complain about you incessantly.” Tyrion picked up his pencil once again and set in on his drawing.

“How’s Tysha?” Jaime asked, steering the conversation away from his decidedly evil twin.

“Quite well. We’ve got some new piglets to chase around.” Tyrion and Tysha resided on a farm just outside of King’s Landing. He was happy, and Jaime was happy for him, though Tywin nearly blew a gasket when he found out about their elopement. “Perhaps a little human one, soon. We’ll see, if I have my way. Tysha isn’t entirely opposed.”

Jaime sputtered. “I’d never imagined you the fatherly type.”

“Nor I you, brother. Though I’m sure you’ll change my mind about that some day. And now I won’t have to worry about my poor nieces and nephews being psychopaths or born with two heads. Cheers.” Tyrion held out his glass and Jaime reluctantly _chinked_ their glasses together, against the incest jab.

As Jaime reached the bottom of his glass, he began to feel a bit fuzzy and realized he hadn’t eaten much all day. He elected to call in a sandwich from Hot Pie’s Deli & Desserts shortly—it was their go-to for everything from a small lunch to catering. “I’m glad.”

“What?” Tyrion asked, looking up from his work.

“I don’t want psychopaths or two-headed children. And I don’t want Cersei.” Jaime shrugged, finishing off his glass.

Tyrion laughed. “Welcome to the normal world, where we don’t often get manipulated from birth into fucking our siblings. Cheers?” He offered him the wine bottle. Jaime did not habitually get drunk at work, but thoughts of the way Brienne’s blazer had hugged her trim, fit waist and the length of her legs under her well-fitted slacks were bubbling up and he didn’t want to shut them out any longer. Gods, more than anything, those _eyes_. She knew how that blouse made them pop. Jaime had seen so many emotions written out in them like a holy text in just the short time they were together. He accepted another glass, but poured a smaller, more reasonable amount for himself. She wasn’t a great beauty—too many freckles, and he’d have to ask her how she got her nose broken. But she was…something. And he certainly hadn’t hired her because of that something. He didn’t know who she was or what she looked like when he typed up that paperwork earlier that day, but he was quite looking forward to getting to know her a bit better; freckles, crooked teeth, and long legs be damned. Professionally, of course.

**********

Jaime was working on organizing the stack of acting resumes and headshots, numbering them in accordance to the timesheet. It was just after eleven when he heard a knock on his door. He gave the knocker permission to enter, and in came Brienne Tarth, clad in another pair of well-fitted slacks and a blouse in a slightly different shade of blue. _Damn her._

“I hope I’m not too early—judging by the state of your desk upon our last meeting, I assumed you might need a bit of help to prepare.” She was carrying a small satchel on her shoulder and a three-ring notebook in her arms. She placed her folder of presumedly signed documents on one of the few free spots.

“It’s alright to admit you were just all-too-excited to get started working with me,” Jaime scoffed, honing in on the papers strewn across his desk. She ignored him and took a seat, grabbing a few papers.

“Gods, some of these resumes look awful. This Tormund Giantsbane seems nearly illiterate. Are we filtering, or is it a free-for-all?”

“Free-for-all, I’m sure you know how surprising some of them can be. We just need to number them in the order that they signed up in accordance to the timesheet.” Jaime dug through one of his drawers to grab a stack of papers—a stage manager print of Macbarath. “This is for you, and I am thankful, yet unsurprised, that you brought your own three-ring.”

“Thank you, kind Ser,” Brienne said as she snapped open her binder and slid the papers through the rings.

Jaime stood and moved to the chair beside Brienne. “I suppose we can’t organize much being on opposing sides.”

“I suppose not,” she replied quietly, and she seemed to lean away from him slightly. She picked up another resume and studied it carefully for a moment. “Cersei Lannister? Isn’t that your sister?”

Jaime felt heat flush his cheeks and ears—a quite unusual sensation. “Indeed. First slot.” She placed it on the top of the stack of papers. He wondered if she’d heard the rumors. Probably not, as Varys had been skillful at finding the leaks and Tywin had been more than ready to pay them off. He was almost convinced Tywin had a separate safe overflowing with gold dragons devoted to covering up his children’s mistakes. It had worked with Aerys.

“Very well. I just hope you don’t buy into any nepotism. I’ve heard how she’s been slipping,” Brienne said offhandedly.

Jaime felt defensiveness bloom in his chest, but quickly squashed it. It was true, Jaime couldn’t argue that. The names began to blur as time ticked by— _snowstarkgreyjoyarryntargaryen_. Brienne jostled him from his focus by nudging him with her elbow and pointing out to him that they only had five minutes to slip across the entire building. _Fuck_.

Luckily, Brienne had at least a good inch on him, even in flats, and could outpace him any day.

They were the last ones to arrive. Everyone was seated around a long table in the gaudy small council chamber. Jaime took stock of the familiar faces. There was an empty chair at the head of the table and one to the right, next to Podrick. Those would be his and Brienne’s seats. He gestured for her to sit, and he followed.

Gods, he hated these meetings.

“Good afternoon, everyone. I’d like to introduce you all to our new stage manager for this production—Brienne Tarth.”

She nodded politely. “I am thrilled to accept the position and I am grateful for the opportunity to work with and get to know you all.”

Nods and gracious smiles adorned the faces of most of the crew. “Alright, let’s get started then. Tyrion, take it away.”

Tyrion stood and presented his design, which was propped up on an old easel. Melisandre chimed in with some of her lighting ideas, while Sandor Clegane grumbled, as expected. Bran Stark presented a few of his sound bytes and his thoughts on musical accompaniment and Gendry Rivers, their resident armorist, shared some of his sketches and fabric swatches. Podrick took notes and organized the folders that were being passed to him by the designers. Arya Stark sat, quietly brooding—she was the combat instructor, and wouldn’t have much to do until rehearsals started. Neither would Missandei, the language coach, though she was much more polite and seemed to be listening intently to the presentation. Samwell Tarly passed Pod some sketches of props—he was a distant descendent of Willem Tarly, the playwright that the company favored. He was an aspiring playwright himself, and was happy to chime in with textual interpretations throughout the rehearsal process. Jaime quietly named each person for Brienne as they spoke. She eyed him thankfully.

After everyone said their piece, Jaime instructed Pod to pass around the budget forms and deadlines to each designer, including a rehearsal schedule that outlined when each crew member was expected to attend. “You’ll also receive copies by email. If we do not have the right one on file, please let Pod know. Auditions are this evening, callbacks are tomorrow, and rehearsals will begin on Wednesday. Thank you all for coming, and please take note of your deadlines and rehearsal attendance requirements. Let’s make another great show.” He stood, and everyone began chattering as they gathered their things. Brienne followed suit. Pod introduced himself to her, and they exchanged a handshake.

“Hope he’ll do,” Jaime said as Pod followed the rest of the crew out of the room.

“His handwriting is a bit sloppy, but he should be fine,” Brienne said flatly. Jaime almost laughed. “Well, that only killed about an hour. Auditions aren’t until six-thirty?”

“Hungry?” He asked, glancing at her over his shoulder as he crossed the room.

“Famished,” she said, hiking her bag over her shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading - as always, comments and kudos are much appreciated. :-)


	4. A Tour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne gets treated to lunch and a tour around King’s Landing Theatre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up - I added a few words of detail to the last chapter, if y’all want to re-read it. Just Jaime angsting about Aerys and Gendry being the costume/armor designer. I’m sorry, I’ll be more responsible in the future. (I’ve never written such a long fic please excuse me. <3)

**Brienne**

Jaime decided to treat her to Hot Pie’s Deli. She had never been—the spot had only been opened a couple years ago and it was apparently run by one of the best up-and-coming chefs in the South. It was only a short walk from the theatre. It had the rustic feel of an inn from days gone by—wooden furniture and brick walls, lit by oil lamps. The prices were cheap and the food was good—the menu was also three pages long. She had certainly been overwhelmed and had decided to order the same as Jaime—a fried turkey breast sandwich with home-style mashed potatoes and green beans. It wouldn’t have been her usual kind of order, but her mouth was watering at the thought of it. She was also celebrating, after all. They were being waited on by a cute but toothy girl whose name tag read “Gilly”. They thanked her as she dropped their drinks off.

“I’ve never met the youngest Stark girl. That Arya seems to be quite an interesting character. I hear she travels a lot,” Brienne started, trying to get a conversation rolling.

“She prefers action to words. Just wait until you see a practice sword in her hand. She’s small, but mighty,” Jaime said, taking a sip of his water.

“I can’t wait to see it. I fenced in college. I’m a bit rusty, but at one point, I’d been rather good.” She remembered fencing with Renly. They would sometimes spar into the wee hours of the morning, and she would beat him nearly every time. He only went to Tarth University for a semester, but they had become fast friends. He was kind in a way no one else had ever been to her. His death had come as a bitter shock—an asthma attack, so sudden it was as if a shadowed figure had swooped in and stolen his breath.

Jaime’s voice brought her back from the bitter memory. “I fenced in university as well! We’ll have to spar some time. I’m sure you’d offer quite the challenge, given your size,” he said, eyeing her broad shoulders. She felt a redness threatening to bloom in her cheeks as she registered the slight. She hadn’t picked up a sparring sword since Renly. She imagined she could easily beat the out-of-practice Lannister into the dust and quietly vowed to do so. “I often join in on the combat lessons. Only a few of the actors are required to attend for this show, but everyone is always more than welcome to join in. Many of them take us up on the offer—it isn’t often they’ll have the opportunity to receive free sparring lessons from the best swordswoman in Westeros.” His eyes gleamed with a youthful enthusiasm and his mouth quirked up at the corners. Fine lines that etched into the corners of his features betrayed his age where the rest of him did not. His chin and cheeks were dusted with a few day’s worth of blonde-brown stubble with a few silvers in the mix.

Their food came out in record time and squashed their conversation. She had forgotten to eat in her anticipation of her first day. They dug in, the only sounds being the chattering of the other patrons, the giggling of the staff, and the sounds of their silverware glancing off the ceramic plates. A few moments after they received their food, a portly young man hovered over their table. “Ser Lannister, thank you for dining with us today. To what do we owe the honor?” The man-boy had a round face, curly, dark hair, and an accent that betrayed he had been born a farmer’s son.

“Showing one of my new recruits around the city. Brienne, this is Hot Pie, Hot Pie, this is Brienne.” He gestured at both of them in an introductory fashion.

“The food’s lovely,” she smiled up at him, and he grinned back.

“Thank you, m’lady. Please, if there’s anything else we can get you, let Gilly know.” With that, he parted, leaving them to finish their hefty lunch.

“So, I remember seeing you studied Medieval-Renaissance Literature on your resume.” Jaime continued to pick at his food.

“Oh, yes. My father instilled a great love of that era in me as a young girl—we would often go to festivals, jousts, museums. It fascinated him, and in turn, fascinated me. If I had told him I didn’t like it, he certainly would have never forced me to. He was a kind man, but I truly did enjoy our ventures. I’m sure he’d be quite proud of me.” Brienne looked down at her plate, pushing the remnants of her food around. Here they were, getting far too personal again. She wished she could tell her father that she was _finally_ working at KLT.

“I’m certain he would be.” There was an overwhelming kindness in his eyes that caused her brain to misfire for a brief moment. The kindness gave way to loathing as he continued. “Mine, on the other hand, couldn’t have been more disappointed when I chose to study literature and theatre, even if they were just my minors. Ironic, seeing as he owns the best damn one in Westeros. I’ve always loved the era as well—I’m quite the sucker for fantasy novels about knights and honor.”

“I wouldn’t have pegged you as reader,” Brienne said, furrowing her brow. She was surprised by his frankness.

“I don’t think that’s fair,” he protested, then began to tease. “Perhaps I’ll continue to surprise you, _wench_.”

“Excuse me? Did you just call me _wench_?” _And what the hell kind of surprises are you talking about?_

He shrugged and gave her a cheeky look. Gilly scurried up to the table just as she was about to lay into him about sexist overtones.

“One check please.” Jaime gave Gilly one of his signature dashing grins as well as his platinum debit card. She blushed as she bustled away to print their receipt. Brienne thanked him for the lunch.

She returned with his card, the receipt, and a small brown bag. “Dessert, on the house, courtesy of the owner.” She placed the bag delicately on the table. “Have a lovely day, see you next time!”

She skittered away and Brienne peeked in the bag. There were two small, wolf-shaped cookies coated with what looked like a honey glaze. “Is it the damn wolf cookies again?” Jaime snorted in amusement when she nodded. “They’re quite good, but the kid has some sort of fetish for the Stark sigil.”

*********

After lunch, they returned to Jaime’s office to finish organizing the resumes—it hadn’t taken them very long, they’d gotten much of it done before the production meeting. Afterwards, Jaime offered to take her on a tour around the building. Brienne attempted to mask her excitement, but she was certain Jaime saw it written all over her face due to his subsequent smirk. She felt a blush once again threatening to creep up her neck.

Jaime led her through a pair of great wooden doors into the main proscenium theatre. The carpet on the steps was pristine and the tiered seats looked plush and inviting. It had been quite some time since she’d seen a show in the theatre—and she had certainly never been in it while it was empty. It was unsettling. Theatres were often haunting, in a romantic way. She silently admired the gorgeous front curtain—a sea of red with golden tassels and a large, hand-embroidered lion nestled in the middle. Jaime cleared his throat and motioned for her to continue down the steps, though he seemed to be taking satisfaction in her wonder.

As they approached the door to the right wing, he pulled out a disorganized key ring and fumbled with it for a moment. She gazed at the stage, imagining the centuries worth of productions that had taken place on it. The question slipped out of her mouth before she could stop it. “What made you want to give up performing on that thing?”

“After you, wench,” he said triumphantly, holding the door open with a grand, knightly gesture, ignoring the question even though she knew he’d heard it. She’d ask him again, and then she’d get an answer.

“You really shouldn’t call me that. Isn’t there some kind of clause about harassment in the workplace in that handbook you provided me?” She responded, a little taken aback by his boldness.

He pulled a face. She wondered how a grown man could look so much like a teenaged boy. “I thought you’d find it endearing, with your love of medieval culture.”

“Not yet,” she quipped, finding it difficult to pin down whether she liked or loathed him yet. Probably both. She continued up the steps, into the wing. She glanced above, the grid was at least a hundred feet above their heads. Even the fly system cables seemed to slope down elegantly. He showed her the back of the stage, then unlocked another door that led into the scene shop. A mess of paint splattered the floor and a thin layer of sawdust covered nearly everything. It was quite a jarring contrast with the solemn elegance of the theatre that she had seen so far, yet this is where the magic truly happened. It had personality. She related to it.

They continued past the dressing rooms, which were well-lit and marble-countered, the sconces decorated with little golden lions. She could easily imagine the beautiful Cersei Lannister primping her golden hair and the luscious lashes framing her brilliant, green eyes—not unlike her brother’s. She had seen her face plastered on more than one page of certain theatre magazines.

They passed a strange room, where there wasn’t anything more than an incredibly thick book placed on a pedestal with a chair beside it. There was a small lion statue perched on the windowsill. She stopped with an aching curiosity and approached the book.

“What is this?” She asked, not necessarily expecting an answer. She saw a few names that she didn’t recognize as she flipped through the pages.

“It was originally called The Book of Brothers, but now it’s just called The White Book. It’s an admittedly archaic tradition of the theatre—it has chronicled all of the supposedly important people that have walked through its _hallowed halls_.” The sarcasm in his voice practically dripped from the last two words.

_Aemon Targaryen, Gwayne Gaunt, Arthur Dayne, Barristan Selmy_. She could probably look through and read the book for ages. “Jaime Lannister?” She read his name aloud as she flipped to the most recently filled page. Jaime was still perched hesitantly in the doorway. Even in the age of printers, the pages were still painstakingly hand-scripted.

_Ser Jaime of House Lannister. Firstborn son of Lord Tywin and Lady Joanna of Casterly Rock. Saw his debut at the Kingswood Theatre under the direction of Sumner Crakehall. Served as understudy to Aerys II Targaryen. After his death during production, Lannister assumed the career-making lead role at King’s Landing Theatre. After a successful acting career, became the director of the productions at KLT._

“I didn’t know you got your start due to another’s demise,” she said, hesitantly. His face turned to steel.

“That isn’t exactly what happened.” His voice reflected the sharpness of his expression. He stood stiffly at the doorway, clearly waiting for her to close the book as well as the conversation. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“So, tell me what happened,” she challenged, as curious about the story as she was about his reaction.

“Not yet.” The hostility in his voice was chilling, and she shied away at her earlier retort thrown back at her. Brienne felt, for a moment, that Jaime Lannister could be a dangerous man. She closed the book with a _thud_. Not _yet_.


	5. Auditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime, Brienne, and Pod host the auditions for Macbarath.

**Jaime**

Cersei was dressed as finely as ever for her audition—a green silk dress clung to her form in all the right places and made her eyes sparkle. He shuddered to think he’d pulled that very same one off of her once. A wave of chilling displeasure washed over him as he realized that was probably why she decided to wear it. She staggered almost imperceptibly into the audition room—he doubted Brienne and Pod had noticed, but he knew her well enough to gauge the uneven sway in her steps almost immediately and he loathed himself for it. He had declined to speak with her before the auditions began and Tyrion just shrugged and turned heel at his response to go let her know. She must be getting desperate if she’s sending you, he had said, and his little brother laughed. It had been months since she had been able to ensnare Jaime in a one-on-one conversation.

She honed her glassy eyes on him and smiled sadistically when he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He felt his face flush under the stubble. He was glad he was letting his beard grow out a little. Brienne gave him a questioning glance which he elected not to meet. Cersei crooned out an introduction, then set in on the monologue he’d heard her recite a thousand times. He hardly listened to any of it, though he did catch that she stumbled over a few of the words. At the conclusion of her lackluster performance, she smiled again, attempting to catch his eye. Brienne looked over at him again and Jaime met her brilliantly blue eyes for a moment—a moment that he knew Cersei wouldn’t have missed, even in her stupor.

“Thank you, Cersei. The cast list will be posted by sunrise on Monday. If we would like to see you for a callback, we will call you directly.” Jaime tried to keep his tone as even and dull as possible. Brienne was looking at him again. Cersei’s smile twisted into a sneer as she gave a small curtsy and stalked out of the room.

“What in the Seven Hells was that about?” Brienne leaned slightly in from her seat beside him and asked him in a low voice as Pod got up to welcome in the next actor.

“What?” He asked, playing stupid. Perhaps he really was.

“Gods, she looked like she wanted to kill you nearly the entire time, and it didn’t seem like it was just her acting.” She squinted at him. “And you look like you’d rather be flayed Bolton-style than have to spend one more second in the same room as her.”

“Oh, you know, sibling drama,” he said with a shrug, shuffling some papers in front of him. Brienne seemed to accept that as an answer, at least for a moment. She was more clever and less trusting than she let on. He wondered how long his poorly-formed responses to her invasive questions would sate her. _Aerys._

The door to the audition room was flung open as one of the most wild-looking men he’d ever seen stomped into the space. Pod closed the door gently and scurried around him to take his seat at the end of the table next to Brienne.

“Tormund Giantsbane, North of the Wall!” He boomed, his fierce eyes peering at them under expressive eyebrows. His gaze settled on Brienne and he had the gall to lick his lips. Jaime felt scandalized and he wasn’t even the one whom he was looking at. Brienne cleared her throat and looked down at the copy of his resume that she had in front of her. He set in on some bizarre monologue about sucking a giantess’s teat from a script he’d never heard of and Jaime wondered if he’d made it up. He had to hand it to him—the man had energy and his voice truly carried.

“Thank you, Ser,” Brienne paused and peered back down at the resume. “Giantsbane. We’ll ring you if we would like to see you back tomorrow for callbacks, and the cast list will be posted early on Monday.”

“I’m no Ser, and you can ring me anytime you’d like, m’lady,” he said with a dramatic wink and strutted out of the room.

“And I’m no Lady,” she muttered after him, rigid in her seat.

“Well, he’s got confidence,” Jaime smirked, eyeing Brienne’s blush and Pod trying to stifle a laugh. “Start a maybe pile.”

She glared at him as she slapped the paper down on the table in a pile of its own. The pile grew as the hours ticked by. There were a few they wouldn’t even need to see back for callbacks—Tormund was a shoe-in for Macdayne, Brienne begrudgingly admitted, under the condition that he would need to remain at least three sword lengths away from her at any given time. Jaime found himself eager to concede, he was surprised to find. He felt some kind of _protective_ tendency towards her—which was strange, because from the look of her, she could beat him into the dust if she really wanted to. He felt as though she was still quite innocent, under that ugly, angry mug, and if anyone was after her virtue, it would be that Tormund fellow. Yes, he would personally see to it that she was allowed her distance.

They took a short break and Jaime, Pod, and Brienne headed towards the green room for a cup of coffee. Brienne took a seat on one of the armchairs, her posture commendable.

“I think that Jon Snow fellow could make a good Macbarath, he has a wonderfully brooding expression about him,” Brienne said after a long sip. “He is a bit short, but I think that could make for a striking contrast. Tormund would tower over him.”

“Perhaps,” Jaime replied, stirring his coffee. He noticed she took hers black. He liked cream and just a dash of sugar. He wondered what that said about them. “That’s quite an interesting idea, I hadn’t even considered that.”

“I think Brienne’s right, m’lord. He’s the best we’ve seen for the part so far,” Pod chimed in. His coffee was mostly cream, Jaime noticed. He tried not to smile.

“Not that Davos fellow?” The man’s voice had nearly lulled him to sleep, in a good way.

Brienne rolled her eyes. “Too old. He’ll be perfect for King Duncan.”

Jaime felt suddenly under-qualified for his position. Payne had always let him do all of the thinking and decision-making. He thought back to he and Tyrion’s conversation— _perhaps she’ll knock you down a peg, gods know you need it._ The words tumbled out before he could think twice. “Last I recall, I was the one doing the casting, wench.”

“I’m quite looking forward to seeing this Danaerys Targaryen. Rumor has it she is quite the star over in Essos,” Brienne continued, brushing off his comment and decidedly not addressing his name-calling. Pod glanced between the both of them, his brows pinched. “We haven’t seen anyone that quite suits the role of Lady Macbarath, and I have a good feeling about her.” She turned to look at Jaime, her eyes piercing. Another challenge.

He replayed what he’d caught of Cersei’s pitiful audition and took another sip of his coffee. He decided not to respond to Brienne’s subtle challenge. He was certain she knew Cersei was always the female lead, when the shows called for it. He was also certain she knew that she was no longer as popular with the masses as she used to be.

Their break was over far too soon. They had only a handful of auditions left. Theon Greyjoy was the first up. They had already seen his two siblings—Euron had given off a positively dastardly impression, but he did have a good stage presence. Yara was similarly strange though in a less unsettling way, and Jaime had already cast her in his mind as one of the witches. Theon entered the room hesitantly. He’d heard rumors of a brief kidnapping that he was the victim of, though few details had ever been released. He was once a boisterous young actor with a flair for comedy, but that seemed to have not returned, based on the solemn monologue he gave them. When he quietly thanked them and left the room, Jaime shrugged and gestured to the maybe pile. He seemed a good fit for Donaldbane, whose role consisted of but a few fearful lines to his brother.

Danaerys Targaryen was the last audition of the day. She entered the room in a striking blue dress. Her white hair was done up in a beautiful arrangement of braids. Her lavender eyes glowed with a fierce competitiveness. Jaime felt something stir deeply in his chest—a sort of immediate respect, for the small young woman that suddenly commanded the room with only her presence, before she’d even opened her mouth to speak. Brienne and Pod seemed to be similarly captivated. “My name is Danaerys Targaryen, First of my Name. I’ll save you my titles, as they’re all listed on my resume. I will be performing a monologue from _All’s Well That Ends at the Wall_.”

And perform the monologue she did. She was utterly captivating from start to finish, and her mastery of the Tarlean language was unmatched. The rumors were true—she was the best in Essos, and perhaps she was going to be the best in the Seven Kingdoms, too. She left all three members of her audience speechless. Pod was practically drooling.

After a few moments of stunned silence, in which she gave them a subtle, victorious smile, Jaime managed to thank her for her audition and give her the information about callbacks and the cast list. She elegantly dipped her head and headed out with as much confidence as she arrived with.

“I suppose we’ve found our Lady Macbarath,” Brienne murmured, putting her resume and headshot at the top of their pile of winners, and Jaime felt a feeling of both excitement and dread settle in the pit of his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know these chapters are starting out really short - I swear they’ll lengthen as we get more into the dirty details of this story! This is absolutely the longest fix I’ve ever taken on and I’m very excited about this journey. Thanks for reading, and as always, comments and kudos are highly appreciated.


	6. Casting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Jaime fuss over casting decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for staying with me, y’all!

**Brienne**

“You spoiled fucking brat.” Brienne’s own profanity surprised her, but she was too upset to care. She sat across from Jaime in his office, both of them seething. “Has anyone ever told you _no_ before? Has anyone ever told you when you’re being a stubborn, ignorant cock?”

“What the fuck do you know about cocks?” Jaime said, his tone venomous.

She took pause, trying to track down exactly when the conversation had devolved into personal insults. Right around the time Pod decided to excuse himself and let them hash it out. They’d been quite amicable when it came to most of the cast, though Jaime had started getting defensive as Brienne had gotten more aggressive about her opinions. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and exhaled. She she opened them back up to a scowling Jaime—arms crossed, nostrils flaring. She leaned forward, hands crossed on the table, keeping her voice even. Brienne was better than this. She was an adult and so was he and she would force his hand.

“You know we can’t cast Cersei as Lady Macbarath.”

His eyes gleamed with an emotion she couldn’t quite pin down. He looked ready to snarl. Then, suddenly, the fight seemed to leave him. His jaw flexed and he dropped his eyes. “I know that.”

She blinked. She felt impatience spread through her veins like wildfire. “Then why the bloody hell are we arguing?”

He met her look of confusion with one of exhaustion, fear, and loathing. “You don’t know my sister.” His shoulders sagged.

“What’s the worst she could do?” Brienne asked, more harshly than she intended. There it was again. The fear. The loathing— _self-loathing_? She softened her tone with a shrug. “You can tell her it was me.”

Jaime barked out a laugh but there was no humor in it. He ran a rough hand across the stubble on his chin. “I’m sure she’d assume that anyway. She was pissed enough when we invited her for a callback.”

Brienne chose her next words carefully. Where in her contract had it stated she would be Jaime’s therapist as well as his stage manager? “I’m not sure whatever childhood and family trauma you two have going on, but how long are you going to let it affect the rest of your life? When are you going to stand up to her and _move on_?” Her questions were, of course, rhetorical, but she noticed he grimaced and recoiled if he’d been stabbed. She pressed forward. “We’re casting Daenerys as Lady Macbarath.”

“Yes.” Jaime said, and the stiffness in his voice reminded her of when she’d started questioning him about the White Book.

“And Cersei as one of the Witches.”

Jaime nodded. Then she felt embarrassed. He was looking past her like a kicked puppy. She felt the overwhelming urge to reach across the table and comfort him with a touch, and the urge surprised her. She imagined his look of horror, his disgust. Who was she to come into his theatre and order him around, anyway? _Gods, did he need it, though._

“You know this is the proper thing to do, right?”

“Indeed.” He appeared to have lost the ability to speak in sentences that contained more than a singular word. She finished typing the rest of Danaerys’s name on the line next to _Lady Macbarath_ and sent it to the printer.

************

_Lunch tomorrow?_

Sansa’s unanswered text rested in Brienne’s inbox as she headed back out to her car. After she printed the cast list, they’d exchanged a short goodnight. Jaime had given her a sly grin and made a cheeky comment she already couldn’t remember, and she’d rolled her eyes and shut the door behind her, though she could tell his heart wasn’t in it. She’d struck a chord and his pride couldn’t allow her to dwell on it. _Too late._ She pinned the single piece of paper up in the lobby on her way out. He had always seemed so charming—over their last hour of heated debate over casting, he now seemed anything but. And _gods_ , did he have issues. She typed out a response.

_Absolutely._

_Cast list up?_

_Yes, but my lips are sealed._

_Yeah, yeah. I’ll meet you at the theatre tomorrow, noon. We’ll head to No-One’s from there._

Sansa’s sister, Arya, had apparently turned her onto the café, but Brienne had always found it a bit weird. The hole-in-the-wall spot was decorated by photos of seemingly random faces, and there was a fountain that was never running in the middle of the dining space. Their pastries and sandwiches were lovely, but she could never quite pin down what spices they used—and not a soul would tell her. After meeting, well, _seeing_ Arya, the fact that she took a liking to such a quietly disturbing place didn’t surprise her.

_See you then. Goodnight._

Brienne tapped out the words as she collapsed on her bed. She really was quite looking forward to seeing Sansa—she was part of a tutoring exchange program during college for some extra money and spent one summer at a school in the North. Sansa had opted for summer classes to improve her literature comprehension skills while she was in high school and had been one of Brienne’s students. She took an instant liking to the calm, well-mannered girl, and had admired her for her quiet strength and her ability to read people. They made it a point to catch up anytime they happened to be in the same area, and had worked on several shows together throughout their time in the industry. Brienne begrudgingly got back up to brush her teeth and wash her face. _Wench._ She grimaced at her reflection and the faded scar on her cheek. Who the hell even used that word, anyway?

_Jaime fucking Lannister_ , that’s who. He didn’t appear to have a _nickname_ for anyone else at the theatre. What did that mean?

_Nothing, after you reamed him about his childhood trauma and basically turned him into a stone man._ His numbness had frightened her in a way she couldn’t quite explain. The playful fire that usually danced across his features had been put out, and the incessantly teasing tone of his voice that had already begun to grow on her had evaporated under the heat of her questioning. It was unsettling.

She gave her face one more good scrub with a dry washcloth and tossed it in her laundry basket on her way back to bed, stripping down to her panties and undershirt. She pulled the blanket snug against her and willed Jaime’s face out of her mind’s eye. She had at least three more weeks to figure him out, a challenge with a deadline. She wondered if, _hoped_ , that would be enough time.

***********

Sansa met her in the lobby. Brienne noticed that Jaime’s needlessly flashy scarlet coupe hadn’t been in the parking lot. Sansa greeted her with a smile. They exchanged a quick hug—neither of them were particularly touchy people. Her auburn hair shined in the natural light that the long windows allowed.

“I’m looking forward to getting my witch on,” Sansa shrugged. They both laughed. “It’ll be hell working with Cersei, but I’ve always liked that Yara. It’ll be fun getting to know her a bit better.”

“She was some kind of hellion, the complete opposite of her brother,” Brienne said, recalling the young woman’s wild and raving audition.

“She and Cersei might actually get along then.” Sansa laughed again. “Ready?”

They took a leisurely stroll down to the café, passing Hot Pie’s Deli on the way. The streets were a bit crowded, as it was noon on a Sunday. It was truly the King’s Landing experience. Brienne wasn’t a huge fan of crowds, and she felt eyes roaming the length of her stature, but it was nothing she wasn’t used to. At least the weather was pleasant.

The café creeped her out as much as it usually had and she made sure to let Sansa know as they waited in line to place their orders.

“I know, I know, I can’t say I disagree, but I would literally kill for their lemon cakes,” Sansa said, almost drooling at the words. Sansa ordered a chai latte, a sandwich, and a lemon cake for desert. Brienne ordered a black coffee, a panini, and a raspberry tart. Sansa wrinkled her nose at her order of a black coffee.

A strange man with a relatively blank expression called their names when their order was ready. “A man thanks you for your business, have a good day.” His name tag read _Jaquen_. They smiled and thanked him, but he gave Brienne an eerie feeling that she couldn’t quite place. It was as if he knew too much, when she’d never met nor seen him in her entire life.

They chose a table on the far corner of the café, near the door, and set in on their food. Sansa looked at her over a sip of her chai. “So, what’s it like working in close quarters with the legendary Ser Lannister?” Sansa raised her eyebrows.

Brienne sputtered on a hot sip of her coffee. It scalded the roof of her mouth. She snorted. “Absolute hell, if I’m being honest. He’s a bit more complex than I expected.” She didn’t want to reveal too much and chose her words selectively.

Sansa shrugged. “I’ve been in one of his casts before. He’s always seemed a bit cocky, and can have a bit of a temper, but nothing too serious.”

“What do you know about him?” Brienne asked, daring to push a little further.

“Beyond rumors? Not much,” Sansa replied, then noticed her subtle disappointment. Brienne began to flush at the recognition. She truly did want and _need_ to know more about him, and he wasn’t giving her much of anything. “I mean, rumors are rumors for a reason. Spend enough time in King’s Landing and you’ll hear people talk, especially about the Lannisters.”

“What are the rumors, then?” Brienne pressed. Her blush deepened at Sansa’s reply.

“I’ve never taken you as one much into gossip,” Sansa said. Brienne felt that she was being studied carefully. Sansa had always been good at that. She sighed, giving in. “Well, there’s the rumors that he and his sister have been sleeping together for quite some time, though that’s died out over the past year or so. They haven’t been at many social events together, and if they are, it seems he avoids her like the plague. Then there’s the rumors that he murdered Aerys—those always seemed a bit far-fetched to me, but gods know they would have enough money to cover it up if it were true. People think they’re clever calling him _Kingslayer_ because of the role he scored after the fact—behind his back, of course, but I’m certain he knows. They also love to talk about Tyrion—the Imp—I’m sure you’ve seen him around, probably at the production meetings. I’ve met him a few times and he’s quite clever, if a bit haughty. Their father seems to be a bit of a monster, but he is a good businessman. He’s undoubtedly part of the reason King’s Landing thrives as it does. He owns about half of it, but the theatre has always been his pride and joy—at least, it used to be. He built the thing nearly from scratch. I wouldn’t consider Tywin a passionate person, but if the man had a passion project, it’s that place.”

Brienne looked at the remainder of her raspberry tart, having lost her appetite. She sipped her coffee. She felt a bit numb. She recalled his face after she had made those pointed remarks about Cersei. _Self-loathing._ She was right. That’s what it was.

“Those are just the rumors, though,” Sansa continued offhandedly. “I’m not sure how much stock I would put into them. Like I said, people love to talk.”

“Yeah,” Brienne replied. She remembered the White Book. How cold he was. _That isn’t exactly what happened._ She almost wished she hadn’t asked Sansa for the dirty details. “You are right about one thing—the man is arrogant.”

Sansa smiled and the tension seemed to break. The rest of their lunch was quite pleasant, though her thoughts were deeply troubled.

************  
_Brienne, was wondering if we could meet for a drink?_

Brienne looked at the message she received as she was walking back to her car after her and Sansa’s lunch. It was from a number she didn’t recognize. Another message followed.

_Sorry, this is Jaime._

Another followed.

_Lannister. This is Jaime Lannister._

She opened her car and climbed behind the wheel.

_I’m sorry, who? I know at least three Jaime Lannisters. You’ll need to be more specific._

A response followed quickly and she wondered if he still had their conversation open.

_Wench. I just wanted to apologize for my behavior yesterday. A few of the other designers are going out for a drink and I though you might like to make some friends. I’d be happy to treat you. I can’t imagine you know too many people in KL yet._

_Only if your brother will be there. I’ve heard he’s quite the charmer._

_He’s taken._

A few long seconds passed.

_We’re meeting at The Red Keep at 7._

She pondered over whether she even wanted to go for a moment. She tried to shake the old, tired feeling that this was all a joke at her expense. She sent her response.

_See you then._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and kudos keep me going. Much love. Xoxo


	7. The Red Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne meets Jaime for a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with me, y’all!

**Jaime**

Jaime sat at the bar, his hand wrapped around a glass of some top-shelf bourbon that the barkeep had recommended to him. He was already a few deep. He checked his watch. Brienne probably wouldn’t show. He had locked the door to his office when he arrived at the theatre earlier that day—it wouldn’t be long before Cersei saw the cast list and attempted to come flying in, eyes blazing, manicured claws at the ready. She had hurled insults from beyond the mahogany door, though they were pleasantly muffled. He’d received a call from their father only moments after he had taken note of her retreating footsteps.

He brought himself back to the bar, taking another sip of his drink. Tyrion and Pod had their arms thrown about each other singing along to the raucous music, both a few drinks in themselves, and Jaime finally recognized the tune as _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ under the boom of the voices of the bar’s patrons. It was quarter past eight and Jaime had just about had enough of the rowdy, crowded place when Brienne strode up to the bar, several seats down to the right of him. She was dressed in a smart black dress, blue flats, and had a blazer draped over her arm. She looked alarmingly uncomfortable and she gave the barkeep a forced smile when he asked what she’d like to order. She glanced around and finally caught sight of Jaime. The forced smile turned into a more natural, albeit guarded, one.

She waited a moment as the barkeep poured her a gin on the rocks and they exchanged a few words. She pointed at Jaime and he nodded at the fellow with a grin—he assumed she was telling him she was on his tab.

As Brienne was approaching Jaime, Gendry swung himself into the seat next to him, between him and his approaching stage manager. “You look downright miserable, _Kingslayer_!”

Jaime’s grin turned into a grimace. “I might be a bit less miserable if you’d stop calling me that.” Usually, they called him that behind his back. After a few drinks, though, his friends found it couth.

Brienne stood, tall and awkward, a few feet away. He gestured to her. “Brienne, let me officially introduce you to our armorist—Gendry Waters.”

Gendry plastered a sloppy smile on, already as gone as Tyrion and Pod were. “Please to make your acquaintance, m’lady.” He stood and took a stumbling bow. Tyrion and Pod bellowed out laughter as they watched the sloppy introduction, and to Jaime’s surprise, Gendry flushed. He saw something flash across Brienne’s strong features—he’d also been the subject of snickers behind his back, and like her, he wasn’t very adept at noticing when it wasn’t directed at him. He was more familiar than she knew with her expression of quiet resignation. He’d seen it in the mirror.

He shrugged dismissively as Gendry gave Pod a friendly wallop on the shoulder and Brienne moved to take his seat. The guarded smile on her face lost some of its edge.

There was a scrape of wood chair legs against paneled floor as Tyrion elbowed himself into their impending conversation. He slung a short arm over Jaime’s shoulder. “I don’t believe _we’ve_ been properly introduced either.”

Jaime sighed, running a hand across his forehead. “This is my brother Tyrion.”

“Striking resemblance, no?” Tyrion stuck his nose in the air in a pompous pout. Jaime saw Brienne try to suppress a laugh. Tyrion made no attempt to cover his guffaws. He sobered quickly. “Truly glad to meet you with more than a passing introduction in a room full of people. Jaime’s certainly spoken of you enough.”

Jaime felt heat rush to his cheeks, then. He was glad the lights were dim and his stubble was thick. “Shut your damn mouth, brother,” he hissed. Jaime had spoken to Tyrion about Brienne earlier that day. About how incredibly furious, and incredibly vulnerable she made him feel. Like those brilliant pools of sapphire already knew him well enough to write out every one of his sins in the White Book if she so chose. He really was embarrassed by his behavior—over the years, he had thought he had been able to keep his anger in check. Jaime was never a necessarily nice man, but he was just. He was fair. He was kind when it counted. There was something about her, though—something about how she looked at him, with those eyes, with that _acceptance_. How dare she pretend to know him, pretend to understand. _Pity_ him, even. He hated her, and liked her, and he desperately wanted to know her, too. He wanted to even the playing field. She’d struck blows with a sword, he surmised, that she hadn’t even known she was wielding.

“The pleasure is all mine, Tyrion.” She stuck out a broad hand, and Jaime found himself studying her surprisingly feminine fingers, though the fingernails were a bit rugged. He shook his head as Tyrion reached across him with his own much smaller hand and took hers. “I’m good friends with Sansa. We caught up today and she mentioned what a gentleman you are.”

“Oh, I don’t want that rumor to be spread about,” Tyrion said, a lewd grin lighting across his features. “My lady Tysha would likely agree with her, though. I’ll leave you to it.” He nodded at his brother and with a good-natured roar he turned back to Pod and Gendry, who were engrossed in a conversation about chainmail. Jaime wondered what else she’d heard from Sansa. People didn’t call her _Little Bird_ for nothing. Pod looked up and gave Brienne a small salute—an odd gesture, he thought, but Brienne seemed to take pride in it. Pod already liked her, he knew. Respected her, at least. Her walls seemed to crumble a bit more. The three men left the bar to mingle.

Jaime sipped his bourbon, eyeing the drunken crusade for a moment, then turning back to her. “A bit late to the party, it seems.”

Brienne raised her glass of gin. “Better late than never.”

“Cheers to that,” he said, clinking his glass to her’s. A few moments of not entirely uncomfortable silence fell between them, though the bustling bar took no notice. The bartender brought her a second drink, which she started sipping on seamlessly. She picked absently at an imperfection at the bar. He broke the quiet between them. “You almost didn’t come.”

“No—I mean, yes, almost,” she said. Her eyes were trained on her drink.

“Well, wench,” Jaime said, noting the way her eyes jerked up and narrowed at the word. He smirked. “I’m sure Pod is glad you made it.”

“Certainly. I wouldn’t have come here for any other reason. Got to get to know my assistant, you know.” Jaime followed Brienne’s glance across the bar. Two gorgeous women were batting their eyelashes at Pod, and he had a grin that was both charming and bashful plastered on his face. Gendry was attempting to talk to Arya. Sandor was sulking next to her with a large, half-finished mug of beer sitting in front of him. Jaime was surprised to see a smoldering interest in Arya’s eyes. Missandei was sitting next to her, chatting with Tyrion and sipping on a cosmo. Sam was sitting near them wearing a dopey smile, engrossed in a conversation with a girl he recognized after a moment as the young lady that had waited on him and Brienne at Hot Pie’s.

Jaime refocused his attention on her and finished off his drink. “Seems he’s a bit preoccupied, unfortunately. I suppose you’re stuck with me for the moment.”

“Appears so,” she said with a sigh. She also finished off her drink. He couldn’t quite place the look on her face. She was proud, and so was he, though for a second, it seemed that she was relieved. He waved at the barkeep for another round. She accepted the drink with a nod of thanks.

“I assume your sister didn’t take it very well?”

Jaime looked at her sharply. “What makes you think that?”

“You haven’t stopped bouncing your knee since I’ve seen you. There’s only one person that I know of that can make you that unsettled.”

He flushed and stilled his leg, notching the fatigue in it once she’d pointed out the nervous tic. She was waiting for a response, gazing at him with an intensity he thought he couldn’t possibly get used to. _Oh, there’s more than one._

Misdirection—that was the ticket. “Would you like to join me outside for some fresh air? The view of the city is lovely from here, and it seems you could use it. From the looks of it you don’t do things like this very often.”

Brienne’s face hardened and he was afraid she’d go on the defensive. Then, it relaxed into a shockingly sheepish look. “That sounds great, actually.”

He motioned to the barkeep for another round. She glanced down at her half-finished drink and back up at him. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Lannister?”

“Certainly it takes more than three drinks, a woman of your stature.” She gave him a familiar look of disdain. It was better than the soul-searching one. After they’d finished off their drinks and gotten their new ones, Jaime led the way out of the bar. He felt the eyes on them, though he had to assume those eyes were primarily focused on Brienne. Even in flats, she stood several inches taller than him, and quite a bit taller than almost everyone in the bar—coupled with her short, straw-blonde hair, she was quite striking, if not pretty. She drew looks from both men and women. For a moment, he wondered if she were gay. Not that it mattered to him. _Right?_

They took a seat at the far end of the balcony. There were a few other groups outside, chain-smoking cigarettes and carrying on with great peals of laughter. The cool breeze was refreshing after a couple hours cooped up in the noise and stale air.

“Won’t the rest wonder where you’ve gone?” Brienne asked carefully, stirring the thin black straw in her drink—needlessly, as she took it straight, like him. She looked off out of the balcony into the twinkling lights of King’s Landing below.

Jaime shrugged, taking a sip of his fresh bourbon. “They all seem to have been a bit preoccupied, I’m sure I won’t be missed.”

“I appreciate you inviting me, though I—“ Brienne started, hesitating.

“Don’t usually do things like this. Why now?” Jaime asked, curious. He didn’t know she was as desperate to know who he was as he was to know her.

“Taking a new lease on life, maybe,” she laughed. The sound was genuine. Perhaps it was because of the sip she just took of her third gin. He liked it. Perhaps that was because of the swallow he’d taken of his fifth bourbon of the night. A sobering image of Cersei lying naked on his bed flashed before his eyes. _How long are you going to let it affect the rest of your life?_ Brienne’s words scoured his mind like hot irons, crisping the memory into cinders. He felt shame. Her next words drew him out of his thoughts like a dunk in ice-cold water. “Have you had enough bourbon to talk about the White Book?”

Jaime felt his chest seize up. _Was this the only reason she had for coming tonight? To grill him for gossip?_ Her sudden, rigid response showed that she must have seen the look. The resignation. The shame. The bitterness. “I apologize. I’ve gotten a bit loose-lipped. I don’t typically drink.”

He felt the negativity subside. Perhaps it _was_ the bourbon. Or perhaps it was the trust. Perhaps it was those godsdammed blue eyes. “This isn’t a story I’ve told people.”

He heard her sigh. He looked up. She was staring, again, at the brilliant lights of King’s Landing glittering in the dark. The lights softened her features. The shadows sculpted her small breasts in the plunging of her neckline and hugged the sternness of her face. Her concern was highlighted. “That’s alright, Jaime.” He liked the way his name sounded in her mouth—not Lannister, not Kingslayer. _Jaime._

“I’m sure you’ve some skeletons in your own closet,” Jaime said, and her reaction to his words was unmistakable, even in the density of the night. Her eyes were cold steel. “Do you know how it feels to bare those skeletons?

There was a heavy pause between them, then she spoke. She rubbed a hand across a faded scar on her cheek. “I do, and I have.”

Maybe it was the bourbon. Maybe it was those eyes. Maybe it was the fact that the story had been boiling and festering like an open, infected wound that would never quite heal for over a decade, one that he’d never shown anyone else. He was desperate to rip the bandage off and scream the story into the void. He willed his mouth to open but no words tumbled out.

The silence was notably uncomfortable. Brienne shifted. “Who else is here?”

Jaime ran his hands through his hair again. The moment was over, and perhaps it would stay that way. “Well, you saw Gendry, Tyrion, Pod, Arya, Missandei, Sam, the Hound—I mean, Sandor. I think that’s it.”

“Why don’t we go see?” Brienne said, rising with her empty glass.

“Absolutely,” Jaime replied, rising with his own, also empty. “Why else did you come, if not to mingle?”

Brienne shot him a shy smile, much like the one he’d seen when Tyrion fucked off. He wanted to see more of it. They headed inside. This time, Brienne led the way. They passed Pod, who gave them a wink and a huge grin as he let himself be led to the door by one of the pretty young women he’d been talking to earlier.

“Pod has quite a way with the ladies, doesn’t he?” Brienne said over her shoulder as they picked their way through the crowd.

“Don’t be getting any ideas, romance in the workplace is unprofessional,” Jaime mock-scolded. She gave him a surprised look—trying to decide if it was just a joke, or a joke at her expense. She seemed to decide on the former and jabbed back.

“Oh please, he’s a little wet around the ears for my taste.” Jaime smiled. The wench _could_ joke. The barkeep must have seen them approaching because he had two fresh drinks waiting for them when they reached the bar with their empty glasses.

“This round’s on him,” the barkeep said, motioning over to Tyrion. He was giving them a cheeky smile and a thumbs up. He was sitting next to Gendry, who’d appeared to give up trying to win Arya’s favor for a moment. Brienne looked at the drink uncertainly.

“I really shouldn’t,” she mused, watching Jaime take his drink and take a swig.

“You don’t have to,” he said, shrugging. “Though no one will say anything if you do. You’re allowed to let loose as much as the next person. I wonder if anyone’s ever told you that.”

“Some have tried,” she muttered. It should have been a joke but her look was too pensive.

“I have a driver that’s going to be picking up Tyrion and I in an hour or so. You’re welcome to ride along—I can pick you up tomorrow and bring you back to your car,” he offered, trying not to sound too eager.

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” She pushed the drink away. “I think it’s time I headed home. Tyrion!” She beckoned him over with a wave. “I appreciate the drink, but I’ve got to go. Next one’s on me, to make up for it.” She gave him the glass. Tyrion looked miffed.

“I’m not a gin man,” Tyrion said, his disappointment palpable. “But I’ll certainly not waste liquor. You’re welcome to ride with us, we have a driver—“

“I know. Perhaps next time. Thank you for the offer,” she said, shrugging her blazer back on and grabbing her handbag as she stood. She turned back to Jaime. Her tone was pleasant, but reserved. “Thank you, Jaime. I had a great time. I’ll see you at the read-through on Wednesday.”

Jaime felt a lump forming in his throat. He wanted to tell her to stay, to talk, he’d tell her about Aerys, _whatever_ she wanted to hear. Instead, he forced a smile. “I’m sorry again, about before. I hope you’ll join us next time.”

Brienne gave him a small smile. “Apology accepted, for now.”

She turned and wove her way through the crowd, her blonde head bobbing above everyone else’s until he watched her disappear through the door, out into the warm, summer night.

“What’d you do to piss her off _this_ time, you emotionally-stunted shit?” Tyrion said, grimacing as he took a sip of her abandoned gin, having taken her seat. He waved the barkeep over to top it off with some ice and tonic.

Jaime shrugged. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. He _hadn’t_ pissed her off—he didn’t think so, anyway. Brienne just didn’t trust him, and the fact that his charm and his witty remarks and his pretty face didn’t do anything to fool her or wear down her armored exterior was both infuriating and refreshing.

“Might be time to take the mask off,” he murmured. Tyrion didn’t hear him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and kudos give me life. Stay tuned for the next chapter, I should have it out a *bit* more quickly this time. Thanks for reading! :-)


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